Safe and Sound
by Alydia Rackham
Summary: Natasha knows her life is over. She had sighted down a weapon with that same expression on her face countless times. Now it's aimed at her. And yet, instead of Death, it's a warm bed. Painkillers. And the wide eyes of a six year old boy.
1. Chapter 1

Natasha knows her life is over. She had sighted down a weapon with that same expression on her face countless times. Now it's aimed at her. And yet, instead of Death, it's a warm bed. Painkillers. And the wide eyes of a six year old boy.

SAFE AND SOUND

For Jaicee

Chapter One

 _Just close your eyes_

 _The sun is going down._

 _You'll be all right._

 _No one can hurt you now._

 _Come morning light_

 _You and I will be_

 _Safe and sound._

 _-Safe and Sound, Taylor Swift_

 _"Sloppy_."

The remark echoed through Natasha's head like a bullet through a cave. It never failed. Even in the midst of blistering pain and humiliation, the _Direktrisa's_ scorn always cut through. Especially when she wasn't there to shoot the assailant in the back of the head herself.

A bone-shaking shudder wracked Natasha's frame and she choked. Her stomach muscles contracted, pulling her body into a fetal position. The ice-cold of the wet stone seeped through her whole right side.

Just seconds ago, she'd hurriedly jumped from one slick roof to another, her sopping hair slapping her face. She hadn't slowed down as she raced across the tiles—instead, she'd picked up her pace, arms pumping, and readied to fly across to the next roof through the sheets of pouring rain. She could hear him back there, his feet swift as a cat's, his breath silent…

She had neared the edge, coiled her muscles, jumped—

Her toe had snagged on a low rail.

She'd flipped end over end, lashing out to claw for a window ledge or a gutter—

Right at this moment, now, lying with her face in the mud in the alley, the memory of that landing _snap_ made her gut turn violently. Now, all the muscles in her right leg spasmed, and her vision flickered. She didn't dare peer through the torrents to see at what angle it was folded underneath her…

Bootsteps. No longer trying to be quiet. Sloshing through the puddles toward her.

She twitched, but all she could do was tighten her arms around her chest and break out into fits of shivering. She stared at those boots—they had stopped about ten feet in front of her. She blinked away the water running into her eyes…

Dragged her gaze up to take in the full height of the man who'd been chasing her. The one who'd been inches behind her for a month now.

Finally caught. Just because _she_ hadn't figured out how to jump yet.

 _"Sloppy."_

He stood completely still. He wore all utility—dark, sleek and functional. Short, dark hair; blunt, unreadable features, and bright eyes that cut right through her. His stance mirrored the blade of a knife, an elegant recurve bow held loosely in his right hand. Part of his body. A quiver of arrows had his back like a quality partner.

For a long time, she didn't think he even breathed.

Then, finally, he reached up, and slid an arrow free.

It sounded like the ring of crystal. It sang harmony with the rush of the rain. He lifted his bow, and set the graceful shaft against it. He drew the bow back. The wood creaked. Sighed.

Natasha lay her head down on the stone again, gulping.

Ow. That hurt. Her face twisted. Her vision blurred.

He aimed at her. Straight at her heart.

Everything went dark, then way too bright again, then fuzzy. The whole world started to tilt…

Images rolled in front of her, mixing together like spilled paint in a river…

A winter morning outside of St. Petersburg. Fields covered in blinding white snow. A towering mansion with gray bricks and frozen pipes…A small, plain white room flooded with light. Another girl, one with bright blue eyes and gold hair. She smiled…

"Katya…" Natasha whispered, her tongue feeling thick. Her mouth kept moving, her voice roughly working, but she lost what she was saying as the arrowhead gleamed silver, winking at her.

" _Sloppy, Romanoff. Sloppy_."

Her mouth went numb.

His bright eyes saw through her.

The bow creaked again.

And everything went black.

VVVVV

Slurred hissing. It was running water. Or…no. No. Wind through trees…?

No, that wasn't right, either…

 _Swish, swish, swish_ …

A reaper through a wheat field…maybe…

She tried to open her eyes.

Nothing happened. Deep inside, she frowned. Tried again.

Nothing. Like they were sealed shut. Like she didn't even _have_ eyes. In fact, her whole head felt like rock. The rest of her body…

Not even there. Couldn't feel a thing. But her head seemed to be resting sideways on something. Something rounded and firm. It jostled her. The bumps thudded through her brain—a bat hitting the wall of a sewer far below…

She drifted in and out of complete blackness and vacuum, but strangely, that alien noise started to sharpen. Her molasses brain took three eternities to identify it, though.

Grass. Someone trudging through high grass.

 _All right, then. Grab hold of that and pull yourself out of this. Come on, Natasha. Breathe—one, two, three. Breathe—one, two, three…_

She focused. Hard. But reality meandered, shifting and swamp-like.

Why wasn't this method working? It always had before—it was her go-to after any head injury or drug…

But she'd never been dead before.

What were the protocols for that?

That question suspended in the air. Sat still. It turned over in her mind…

And all of a sudden, a dart of uncontrollable terror shot through her.

No rational thought came with it. It bashed through her head, shrieking, but it flailed against the walls and couldn't find a way out—

Her eyes stayed sealed, her body insensate, even as she started hearing labored breathing in both ears…the twittering of night birds…the rustle of cottonwood leaves…

A shift. Some sort of dull light against the corner of her consciousness.

Her heart screamed to take off and start crashing against her breastbone, but everything below her collarbone seemed to be missing…

The light solidified in her mind's eye. Pulled closer.

Black, dead trees huddled overhead and grasped each other's knotted hands—and in between them, right in front of her, lurked a low house. A house with two leering windows that spilled sinister orange flamelight. A house whose walls, door and thatch were entirely made of _bones_.

Dry bones, gnawed by dull teeth and stacked to form frames, support and insulation, gleaming by lamplight, the human skulls grinning as they perched upon corners and posts.

And at the doorstep of this horrific shack waited a hag with blazing yellow eyes and a long hooked nose, draped in rags and skins. She smiled. Her fangs glistened.

"Baba Yaga," Natasha wanted to gasp—but she couldn't pull in enough air.

"Hello, dear! You finally came," the witch's voice, like dead wood rubbing together, sent ice shooting down Natasha's spine. She advanced, cocking her head unnaturally far to the right.

"I'm not coming inside." Natasha still couldn't make her mouth work—but she _willed_ that hag to understand her.

Baba Yaga's eyes widened and her mouth shrank so she looked like a fiendish owl.

"What? Why not? This is _your_ house! You've worked so hard on it! Do come see!" Baba Yaga grasped Natasha's upper arm. Her wiry iron grip tightened, and she dragged her toward the door. With every step, the house seemed to grow, until it loomed over her, the hellish light filling her vision.

 _I'm dead_ , Natasha realized. _I'm dead, and this is what it's like—this is what's going to happen to me…_

"You've done such good work," Baba Yaga praised. "You're one of us now—one of the Widow Witches. And a fine place it is." She leaned closer to Natasha's right ear. Her breath reeked of death. "I will give you a hint, though. The bones are so much better if you crack them and suck out the marrow."

Natasha's skin turned to frost—

Just as the walls began to writhe.

The skulls turned toward her, peering without eyes down at her…

And she _knew them_.

They had no flesh, no muscle, but she recognized _every single one of them_. She could list their names.

They all had bullet holes straight through them.

Natasha screamed.

But she made no sound—none at all.

The arm bones broke loose—stretched toward her. The finger bones clattered and hissed as they lashed out, catching her by the arms, the hair, the front of her shirt—

 _Thud, thud, thud_.

Boots on wooden steps. Jostling through her head.

The _screech_ of a screen door swinging open.

The bones, the house, the witch—vanished.

"Clint!"

What? A woman! A woman's voice. An American…

"What…What's going on? What happened?"

"Another agent," came the man's voice—hoarse. Completely out of breath. Right above her head—and infinitely more real than that witch's.

"Name's Natalie. She was with me in the field, and it was raining out. She slipped off a roof. Right leg's broken."

"Oh, my—You were able to set it?"

The air changed. Stilled. Jostled again. The door squeaked shut and slapped against the frame.

"Yep, found a quick-fix bunker close by. That brace ought to hold it," he huffed.

 _Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud_ …

More steps. Up. Inside ones…?

"Did she hit her head?" the woman asked, rustling up from behind.

"Nope, I've got her pumped full of some pretty hefty painkillers. Had to, or she would have taken my head off when I tried to set that thing."

They evened out, and he kept walking. They turned…

"She's got to stay here for a while, Laura."

Another shift. The jostling stopped…

Replaced by a deep, soft sinking…

"We'll keep an eye on her. For now, anyway."

Natasha raged against this blindness, against this fog in her brain, against her lead-filled muscles. She had to open her eyes, she had to wake up, she had to _get_ up…

But she sank. Further and further down. Until the voices turned into babble, and fell into silence, leaving two facts standing alone in her head.

 _I'm not dead._

 _He saved me._

 _To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Natasha opened her eyes.

Easy. The weight had lifted off.

She stared up at a dim ceiling. The gray light of dawn filtered into the room.

She could feel her whole body again—almost _too_ much. Her very skin, and all the way to the ends of her fingers, across her face, her lips—felt raw and tingling, like the air itself was on the edge of hurting her. And her right leg throbbed deep inside, her whole hip stiff and swollen. Some of that painkiller must still be working. Otherwise, she had a feeling she'd be delirious.

Her heartbeat hitched. She carefully turned her head, and glanced through the room.

She lay on her back on a double-sized, white-framed, iron-wrought bed, covered with a light pink quilt. The room—what she could see of it—had been decorated probably a long time ago. Old-fashioned, simple, country. Off to her left, an antique vase filled with flowers perched on top of a dark-wood, hand-made dresser with three drawers and a little square mirror. Right next to it sat a beaten trunk covered with frilly porcelain dolls. The floor was wood, with a twist rug lying to the left side of Natasha's bed. Antique prints of little kids playing with sheep and dogs hung on the white walls. It all smelled like rose water and lavender. The headboard of her bed pressed against a wall between two windows, and the hesitant daylight crept through long lace curtains. The door to the room stood right in front of her, probably six feet from the foot of her bed. It hung open.

And the figure of a man blended with the shadows there.

Natasha's heart-rate skyrocketed, and she halfway sat up—

Pain lanced down her leg and up her back. She grimaced, clamping her teeth and her fists.

"Easy, easy," the man murmured, and stepped inside. He grasped the knob and pushed the door shut. It clicked softly. He faced her again, and folded his arms over his chest. She could hardly see any of his features-but those hawk-like eyes glimmered.

"You're not going anywhere," he continued quietly. "Lucky for you, though, you don't have to."

Sweat broke out on Natasha's forehead. She didn't say anything. He canted his head.

"Natalia Alianovna Romanoff," he said. "My name's Clint Barton. And I want you to know that I've brought you to the safest place on earth. It isn't on any grid or maps or anything. We don't even have cable or internet. Nobody knows it exists except me and Nick Fury."

Natasha swallowed and her gut roiled. She mustered her fiercest glare, squeezing the sheets as hard as she could.

The man—Barton—took a deep breath.

"This is my house. My safe house. My family lives here. My wife Laura, my son Jason—and my wife's expecting a baby girl."

Natasha's thoughts derailed. She stared at him.

He leveled a penetrating gaze at her.

"So, I don't know if you have any sense of honor, but you'd better grow one. And if you can't figure out how to do that, you'd better get in touch with your sense of self-preservation." He took one step closer. Natasha's sweat turned cold.

"You failed your mission for that nice club of Commie spies," he pointed out. "Like—completely. You lost your target _and_ you've been captured by the enemy. You're totally compromised. Even if you _could_ get back to them now, they'd kill you. They wouldn't risk you being followed or turning on them. Plus, what good is a ballerina with a busted leg?" He cocked his head again, peering at her. "You know I'm not making stuff up, right?"

Natasha gulped, her left arm shivering. Barton took another step toward her.

"I also want you to know that by twenty-four-hundred hours this coming night, I'm supposed to have dragged your carcass to Director Fury so he can cremate you and wipe you off of all the record books to make it look like you never existed."

He paused.

Natasha held her breath.

"I made a different call," he concluded, lifting his chin. "I'm gonna go talk to Fury. See if I can't cut you a deal."

Natasha twitched. Squinted at him.

No, she _had_ to be hearing things...

"In exchange for that," Barton went on. "I'm gonna tell him that you're willing to give up all your creepy Commie buddies. Their code names, their hideouts, their pigeon-holes, their favorite weapons, their training academies. The works." Barton shrugged. "It's a good bone to throw Nick. Bulldog like him always needs a bone."

Natasha ground her teeth. A ghost of a smile whispered across Barton's shadowed face.

"Those are your choices," he said. "Run back to your nice friends if you want. Or stay here and live." His eyes flashed. "But if you lay one finger on my family with an intent to hurt them, there won't be a place on this planet you can go to even get five minutes worth of good sleep."

Needles of pain began racing down Natasha's whole right side. Barton turned and started toward the door.

"There's painkiller in the drawer of that nightstand. Glass of water right next to the lamp there, too. Lasts for eight hours. Laura will help you with anything you need." He grabbed the doorknob and opened the door. "They think your name is Natalie Rushman, by the way." He stepped through, and he was gone.

Outside, a rooster crowed. And Natasha couldn't do anything but stare at the empty doorway.

VVVVV

That rooster crowed again. Much louder this time. Natasha made a face, and shifted uncomfortably. She squinted her eyes open, lifted her head and pushed her hair out of her face.

Midday light now filled the small white room. Had to be about noon. She huffed and flopped back onto the pillow, straining to link her memories together.

A few minutes after Barton had left, she'd come to her senses enough to open the drawer and find the bottle of red painkillers he'd talked about. She hadn't hesitated before tossing one her mouth and swallowing it with a gulp of the cold water in the glass on the nightstand. If he'd wanted her dead, he wouldn't bother to poison her—he'd have shot her in the alley and dragged her off by the ankles.

Now, all her muscles panged stiffly, but she didn't dare move. The pain _that_ might cause was too excruciating to imagine. She bit her lip and winced as she considered. Soon, she'd need to find something to eat or this painkiller would make her throw up. And she'd definitely have to go to the bathroom...

Her face filled with heat and she covered her eyes.

Not a chance. She couldn't even adjust her own covers.

"Hello, sweetheart!"

Natasha jerked, her heart banging against her ribcage. A woman strode into the room carrying a breakfast-in-bed tray full of food. She had shoulder-length dark hair, pleasant features and large brown eyes. She wore a red plaid shirt rolled up at the elbows and maternity jeans—she looked about seven months pregnant. She herself was thirty six years old—twelve years older than Natasha. _If_ Natasha's age-guesser wasn't broken. Which...at this point, was a distinct possibility.

The woman's welcoming expression instantly sharpened to one of concern as she came in and set the tray down at the end of the bed.

"Ooh, you look like you have a fever," she noted—and reached up and touched Natasha's face.

Natasha bit down so hard on her cheek she thought she'd start to bleed.

But she _didn't_ grab the woman's wrist. She didn't throw her down. And she didn't hit her in the throat.

But her vision turned black for a second. Then...

Strange feelings. Strange, soft feelings cascading down Natasha's face and neck. The woman gently, methodically, pressed her fingers to Natasha's forehead, cheeks and throat, frowning thoughtfully.

"Hm. Well, you're definitely hot, but your lymph nodes aren't swollen. I don't think you're sick—I think you're still kinda in shock," she mused. She withdrew her hand and smiled again. "My name's Laura. Clint probably told you. He said your name is Natalie?"

Natasha couldn't move for a second, fixated on Laura's expression. Then she nodded once. Laura laughed softly.

"He told me about your night last night. Said you might not feel too chatty. I wouldn't either! But it's a good idea to try to get some food in you, here, so those pain meds don't make you sick. Here, can you sit up?" Gentle hands gripped Natasha's upper arm, and steadied her back as she, without even making the conscious decision to try, made herself sit up a little. Laura swiftly re-assembled the pillows so they would prop her up.

"There, okay…Lean back," Laura instructed. Natasha did, sinking warily into the fluff. Laura adjusted her covers, then grabbed the tray and set it across Natasha's knees. Hot cream-of-wheat with butter and brown sugar steamed on that tray, as well as toast and jam, tea and orange juice. She stared at them without comprehending—while a strange sensation pricked the corners of her eyes.

"Go ahead and eat, so you don't get an upset stomach," Laura urged. "I'm going to get some dusting things and dust in here. Either that, or I'll plant corn on the top of the dresser, haha!" Laura stepped out of the room, leaving Natasha with the problem of the food sitting in front of her.

She knew Laura was right. The painkiller would eat up her stomach if she didn't put something in there with it. But she was not hungry in the _slightest_. In fact, she felt nauseated, her muscles like water. She was still staring at the food when Laura came back.

But Laura didn't push her, or say another word about it. Instead, she bustled around the room, straightening, dusting and sweeping, talking about how this definitely wasn't the first time they'd had to take care of another SHIELD agent that Clint had dragged home, and about the many times she'd had to stitch _him_ up or nurse him herself, and how worried she always was about him, even though she knew how capable and smart he was. Then she moved on to chatting about the chickens, and how there might be a fox in the woods nearby, and how the dishwasher was broken but she would have to fix that herself, and that the green beans were almost ready to pick...

Natasha watched her, hazily losing herself in Laura's stream of narrative...

And before she knew what was happening, she had eaten all the food on the tray.

 _To be continued..._


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

She listened, breathing slowly and evenly, her eyes half-closed. But even in the late afternoon, this whole place was very quiet. She sat up in bed, still leaning back against those pillows, her hands folded in her lap. Laura had left a few hours ago, saying she needed to go finish some other work and get supper started.

Get supper started? Set the table? Natasha mentally shied away. Everything that woman did or said felt foreign and sideways. No regimen, no discipline, no uniformity. It irritated Natasha. Or...made her feel like a little kid lost in a crowd.

A few distinguishable noises drifted up through her partially-open window: wind through trees about half an acre away; clucking, fluttering chickens; the creak of a barn door; twittering of birds on the roof and in the gardens.

Quiet. Solitude.

Something else. Some _one_ else.

She opened her eyes just the slightest bit more. Otherwise, she stayed still.

Eyes. Big brown eyes with long eyelashes. Peering over her footboard at her. They belonged to a little boy with messy chestnut hair. She could see a smattering of freckles across his forehead and nose. The rest of him hid behind the bed.

Natasha opened her eyes all the way. He stared right back at her. Neither of them shifted or breathed.

"Hi," he said, his voice low. He waited.

Natasha frowned slightly. Summoned a little air.

"Hi," she answered. Her voice came out very hoarse, but made enough noise so he could hear.

He straightened up a little, took a breath, and stopped. Then he swung his arms back and forth—though she still couldn't see most of him. He sucked a big breath again, then looked sideways at her.

"I got a new Transformer."

Natasha blinked. He hoisted it up in his right hand—a large red, blue and silver toy in the shape of an armored man. Then, the boy suddenly trotted around to Natasha's side and held it up with both hands. He wore shorts and an over-sized blue and brown plaid shirt. He could only be six years old.

"See? It's brand new," he told her. "And if you...if you twist this like this, and then fold this _down_..." He began manipulating the clacking pieces with his little fingers, pushing and pulling and clicking, until the man had completely transitioned to a shiny semi-truck. He held it up for her to see. "See, look!"

Natasha glanced back and forth between him and the toy.

"Here, you do it," Jason shoved the truck toward her.

Natasha jumped—but he almost dumped it on her, so she caught it, and raised it up so she could see it.

"It's kinda hard...I had to practice a lot," he said seriously. "But...it's fun!"

Natasha tilted her head, studying the little plastic hinges...

"His name is Optimus Prime," the boy said, tripping forward to lean on the side of the bed and point at the toy. "I like him better when he's...when he's like a...like a...has legs and arms and stuff."

 _Click. Click. Click. Click._

With swift, precise motions, Natasha undid what the boy had done, in exact reverse order, snapping each part into place like she was assembling a handgun. In no time, Optimus Prime stood there in her lap, straight as a soldier at inspection.

The boy's mouth fell open.

"Woah...! Wow! _Wow!_ You're _really good!"_ he declared. The edges of Natasha's mouth twitched up.

"Thanks," she whispered. "That's my super-power."

"That's a good super power," he acknowledged. He stretched out a hand and poked the toy robot, then grabbed its arm and bent it sideways. Natasha let go of it, and the boy took it from her, then slapped it down on the edge of the bend on its back and began fiddling with it.

"What's your name?" he asked, and glanced up at her.

"Natalie," she managed.

"You know Dad?" he asked, making Optimus stretch both hands up over his head.

"Yeah," Natasha answered quietly. "For a while, now."

The boy looked up at her earnestly.

"Are you a special secret too?"

Natasha almost smiled again, watching the brightness in his eyes.

"Yeah," she answered. "I'm a special secret."

"Cool," he grabbed Optimus and bounced him up and down on the mattress. "What did you do to your leg?"

"I fell in the rain," Natasha said, absently running her fingers through her messy, curly hair. "Broke two bones."

"I broke my toe one time," he told her. "I...There was this brick on the porch that we...that we use to keep the door open..." He flopped down on his rear end on the floor and pulled off his shoe. "And I...I was running, and I jumped sideways and I kicked the brick with my toe and then I fell off the porch in the flowers. It was this toe." He grabbed the big toe of his right foot and pulled his foot up over his head in the effortless way only a little kid could. Then he let go and his heel hit the floor with a _thump._ "It's better now, though."

"That's good," Natasha mused.

"Yeah," he agreed, tipping sideways. Then, he scrambled up, grabbed Optimus and said, "I'm gonna...Mom says I can feed the chickens now." And he turned and hurried to the door.

"Okay," Natasha answered. "Bye, Jason."

He skidded to a halt and spun around.

"How did you know my name?" he asked indignantly—but he was smiling. Natasha shrugged, and gave him a little smile of her own.

"Your dad told me."

"Bye, Natalie!" he said, and ran off. She listened as he raced down the hallway, one shoe off and one shoe on…

"Diddle diddle dumpling…" she whispered—and her throat caught. She squeezed her fingers together, turned, and gazed for a long moment at the lone sneaker on the rug.

VVVVV

"Hi."

Natasha sucked in a breath and forced her eyes open—then made herself focus. She still sat up, but she'd drifted off. Now, the windows were dark, and the lamp on her nightstand had just clicked on. Laura stood there by the right side of her bed, bending close, with that look of gentle welcome on her face that made Natasha want to run away. Natasha pulled in another sharp breath, willfully waking all the way up.

"I'm gonna help you get up and go to the bathroom and take a bath," Laura said. Just then, Natasha noticed a metal walker standing behind the other woman. Her mouth gapped open, but she suddenly couldn't say anything. Laura's smile became more confident.

"We'll make it real quick and easy. No worries. I was a nurse before I got married and I helped bathe all kinds of people. It'll all be okay. Then I've got some supper for you."

Again, Natasha's mouth worked, but no sound came out. Laura didn't wait for her. She deftly pulled the covers off of her, then took hold of Natasha's hurt leg by the ankle. It was all bound up in a black boot cast—and elevated, apparently by several pillows. Natasha hadn't even noticed. She gaped at it for a second—

"Okay, help me maneuver this around…" Laura instructed as she raised Natasha's leg…

Natasha bit her tongue as shafts of pain bolted through her muscles up into her hip joint. She jerked out a hiss through her teeth, and her eyes watered.

"Oh, I know, I know," Laura murmured, wincing. "But it will be really good for you to get up and move a little bit. We don't want you getting blood clots." She met Natasha's eyes. "We'll go as slow as you like. This bath will feel wonderful. Promise."

Vicious curse words in five languages sprang onto Natasha's tongue, and she glowered at Laura—but the pain muted her, and she couldn't do anything but grunt. And Laura didn't let go.

Blackly, feeling sweat run down the side of her face, Natasha had to whisper to herself that she might have met her match.

VVVVV

She hated it. Hated every second, every moment, every heartbeat of having to do this. She _hated_ leaning on that walker to hobble out of the room and down the hallway to the very large, cream-tiled bathroom, with Laura hovering next to her as if she were an invalid. She _hated_ needing help with her pants, she _hated_ needing help sitting down on the toilet and getting up from the toilet. She hated feeling weak, and shaky and foolish and dependent, like some little baby or a useless _babushka_ with arthritis. She _hated_ this crippling pain that made her vision blink in and out, in spite of all the mental exercises she tried. Her face burned like it was on fire and she _would not look_ at the other woman.

The other woman, who worked swiftly and effortlessly, with an air both confident and businesslike—regardless of the fact that she was fairly pregnant, and that shifting her weight took effort. The other woman, who, from the toilet to the edge of the tub, carried half of Natasha's weight by wrapping Natasha's arm around her shoulder and pressing her to her side. The woman who, as Natasha gripped a bar that was bolted into the wall, undressed Natasha as she would her own little daughter, talking all the time about the flowers she'd planted that day, and the baby rabbit she'd found in the rose bushes, and the fact that Jason had run around with one shoe off all afternoon long.

Before she knew it, Natasha wore nothing—and she had never felt more exposed or humbled in her entire life. The scars stood out in this bright, healthy light—revealing the broken, the sick. Scars from blades and beatings, from bullets and burns—and now she'd been wounded so badly she stood there absolutely vulnerable. Helpless. Naked, in every way.

But Laura just cleared her clothes away, then said:

"Okay, this is a pretty neat tub. See this bench thing, here? You're going to sit on it, then we're going to swing your legs up and over so you can lay down on it, and put your head on the headrest here. Then I'll push a button, and it'll move over the tub, and lower you down into the bubble bath—but I'll adjust it so this leg stays out of the water. We don't want it getting hot. Then you can just relax and I'll take care of the rest!"

Natasha clamped her jaw shut so hard it hurt her whole head. But Laura stepped in and began nudging her, and Natasha had to obey, because if she didn't, she'd topple over and break her neck. Or her other leg. Or all the bones in her body. So she eased gingerly down on the cushy bench, and Laura helped lift her legs up as Natasha maneuvered her upper body around so that she could lie down. Laura moved around behind Natasha's head and worked a couple controls, and the bottom of the bench separated, elevating Natasha's hurt leg. Then, with a groan of machinery, the entire thing slowly slid over to hover above the large round bathtub, already full to the brim with water and thick, cloud-like suds. With that same steady slowness, the bath bed lowered down, until the suds spilled over the edges and swept over Natasha's body—and then so did the water.

Powerfully-soothing heat swallowed her, and she let out an involuntary sigh.

"How's the temperature? Too hot?"

Natasha's eyelashes flickered, and she managed to shake her head.

"Okay, good," Laura decided. She pushed another button, and the headrest adjusted so that Natasha's head tilted back, and most of the top of it dipped down into the water.

For a second, her breathing hitched, and her right hand jerked up—

"What kind of shampoo do you like? I have coconut and lavender."

Natasha's lips parted, but she could just stare at the three electric ship's lamps hanging over her head.

"We'll do lavender. I love lavender before I go to sleep." With that, Natasha heard Laura scoot a low stool around behind her, sit down…

And then she began gently raking her fingers through Natasha's long hair, pulling its lengths down into the water, getting the rest of it wet, splashing the liquid warmth up across her scalp and her forehead, talking calmly all the while.

"We had this installed quite a while ago, because Clint comes home so often all banged up. And he is _not_ a good patient," Laura chuckled. "Gosh, doctoring him is like trying to get a grizzly bear to sit still. But he eventually does what I say because I threaten to tranq him…"

Laura squirted shampoo into her hands and then began rubbing it through Natasha's hair, gentle and firm, methodically massaging her head and rubbing the soap through her tresses. Washing out the dirt and the grime imbedded there by that stone alleyway…melting the days, the _years_ of tension loose…

Natasha hated it. Hated it just like she hated everything about this place and all the stupid people in it. She told herself _that_ was the real reason why tears kept leaking through her guard, and trickling down her temples, no matter how much she tried to blink them away.

 _To be continued_ …


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Thursday

"Look what I found!"

Natasha's head came up as Jason's noisy entrance shook her resolve loose. She was sitting on the right edge of her bed, feet nearly on the floor, still wearing a set of Laura's spare pajamas. She'd been staring at the opposite wall with building determination, bracing herself to get up and hop across the room. But the little boy's bang and crash pulled that thought out of her grip.

"Look, look, look!" he cried, running up to her, grass stains decorating his t-shirt and shorts. He pushed a mason jar at her. Natasha took it, peering through, trying to find something more interesting than leaves in there.

"What is it?"

"Look! Turn it!" He pushed at the glass and she obeyed—and spotted a large wolf spider huddled against the bottom.

"That's a pretty big spider," she remarked.

"Yeah," Jason nodded. "I found him in the barn."

"What are you going to do with it?" she wondered. He hesitated, then shrugged.

"I dunno yet."

"You can do a lot of interesting things with a spider." Natasha turned it so she could see it better. "You can put it in the freezer, and then when it's dead you can pin it on a board to display. Or you can feed it grasshoppers or beetles and watch how they kill and eat prey. Or you can even get another spider or a scorpion, and put it in there with him, and see how long they fight before they both die—"

"Nooooo!" he howled. Natasha's attention jerked from the jar to Jason—to see his wide eyes bright with tears and his brow twisted.

"I wanna let him go!" he cried—and groped for the jar.

"Okay, okay," Natasha said hurriedly, handing it back. "That's a good idea, too. That's a really good idea. You do that."

Jason hugged the jar to his chest with both arms, and gave her a pointed, sideways look of betrayal. Something hard and sharp stabbed through her chest.

"Hey…big guy," she said, trying to keep her voice steady, and forcing a small, crooked smile. "You…You know I was only kidding. Right?"

His face scrunched into a frown.

"I was just kidding," she assured him, keeping that smile, and holding his gaze. She straightened up a little. "He'll like it if you let him go. I'll bet he'll even make sure to eat all the annoying bugs, like mosquitos and ticks and stuff, just so they don't bother you."

"Yeah," Jason relaxed his hold on the jar a little bit. "I don't like mosquitos."

"Me neither," Natasha's smile warmed as that sharp shaft in her chest diminished.

"I'm gonna go let him go," Jason declared, and started to the door.

"Okay," Natasha agreed. He stopped and spun on his heel.

"I'm _not_ putting a scorpion in there," he said with loud finality.

"Good plan," she nodded. And he left.

Natasha listened as he hurried down the stairs and padded to the front door. She heard the screen door swing open and slam. Dull thuds as he hopped down the porch steps. Then, he raced around to the side yard, past the garden, toward the big peeling barn, swishing through the tall, lush grass as he went, the jar flashing in the sunlight. Then, he disappeared into the barn.

Natasha blinked. Then, she drew in a slow, careful breath, and glanced down at herself.

She was standing at the window, all her weight on her left foot, her hands braced against the window frame.

Friday

"Bbbbbbbbbbbbbbllllllbbbbbbbbllllbbb…Pish-eew! Pish-eew! Bbbllltthhh…"

Natasha drowsily opened her eyes. She lay partially on her left side, all tucked in up to her neck. Warm, soft morning light flooded the room, and spilled down on that twist rug by her bed. Jason sat there with about twenty Transformers sprawled all over the place, and now seemed to be orchestrating a battle of the ages between Optimus Prime and Megatron.

She lay there in silence for about an hour, watching him. He did all the different voices as the robots roared and he smacked them into each other. He made up countless sound-effects for the weapons and explosions, and got the most excited and made the most noise when he twisted them from car to man, and back again.

"'I have you now, Megatron! You'll never get away this time.' 'That's what you think, Optimus. You'll never catch me! Phhhhh-pew-pew-pew! Wwwwshhhh!"

Natasha pulled the covers up over her mouth to bury her grin, fascinated beyond reason, and unable to look anywhere else.

Finally, Optimus crushed Megatron, sending him crashing to the floor and skidding all the way across the room.

"Hahaha, take that! And stay down!" Jason commanded. Then, he let Optimus fall to the floor with a thump. He hopped up, and darted around the bed.

Natasha frowned, startled…

He opened a closet door, shuffled around with something inside, then raced back around, carrying a junior-sized bow and a quiver with three arrows. And he looked right at her.

"Look what dad said I could have when I'm bigger."

Natasha blushed hard—then almost smirked. When was the last time she had been _embarrassed_ about spying?

"That's pretty cool," she managed, and cleared her throat. "Too big for you now?"

"Yep," he said, setting the end of the bow on the rug and looking it up and down. "Dad says that it's not a good idea to have your weapon be taller than you."

Natasha snorted, and covered her mouth again. Jason obviously didn't get why that was funny, so she straightened and cleared her throat again.

"So what do you want to be when you grow up?"

"A Merry Man," he answered instantly. Natasha blinked.

"A what?"

"With Robin Hood," he said. "That's what dad does. He's a Merry Man. He leaves and goes out into Sherlock forest, and he fights the sheriff of Notty-ham."

"Sounds kinda dangerous, don't you think?" she asked, amusement trickling through her.

"Yeah, sometimes he gets hurt if he falls in a trap or the bad guys shoot at him," Jason agreed. "But he's better than they are. He always wins."

Natasha couldn't think of anything to say. Talking about Clint Barton made unpleasant knots behind her heart. So she shifted, and refocused on the weapons.

"Look pretty sturdy to me. You'll have fun learning."

Jason grinned.

"I'm going to be just as good as Dad."

"I bet you will."

Thursday

Natasha sat on the front porch of the farm house in a cushion-covered wicker chair, her bad foot up on an ottoman, the grasshoppers buzzing and the sparrows twittering in the box hedges all around the house, trying to convince herself that she wasn't having an out-of-body experience. It wasn't really working.

She wore harem pants and a ruffly, comfortable floral top, a glass of ice-filled lemonade sat within reach of her right hand. The afternoon sun beamed across the fields, the roof of the barn, and the tops of the trees in the nearby woods. Butterflies danced over the alfalfa, the air smelled like clover and sunbaked grass, and she was pleasantly warm and comfortable, the pain managed down to a dull ache.

During the past few days, in fact, the pain had diminished so much that she only took the painkillers at night—and they knocked her out. As a result, she'd been getting the best sleep of her entire life. She was secretly glad for the drugs for that exact reason. Before they kicked in, every single night, she'd stare at the black ceiling, breaking into a cold sweat, spinning a million terrible scenarios into a weaving worthy of a spider on steroids, wondering who was looking for her, how close they had come, what Barton was doing, what Fury had decided…

But then powerful drowsiness would sweep over and she'd sink into deep, dreamless darkness, and wouldn't wake up until that stupid rooster started bellowing.

Then, every morning, Laura would bring breakfast up to her—and a tray for herself too. She'd sit on a stool and eat as Natasha did, talking about whatever came into her head. This past Sunday morning, Laura had been talking about the trouble she'd had with these poached eggs.

"White vinegar helps it set faster in the pan," Natasha said around a mouthful of toast.

Laura dropped her spoon. It clattered on the floor.

Natasha's head jerked up.

"What?"

Laura stared at her.

"Nothing," Laura said quietly, watching Natasha. "Just…that's the first thing you've said to me."

Natasha stopped breathing, suddenly trapped.

Then, Laura slowly smiled.

"So, you're a chef?"

"Uh…I know a little," Natasha's face went hot.

"What's your favorite thing to cook?" Laura took a bite of her egg.

"Lemon meringue pie," Natasha said, ducking her head. "But I don't get to make it very often."

"We'll have to do that, then," Laura decided. "I've been dying for a good dessert."

Then, with no effort at all, the awkward moment had passed; Natasha's death-grip on her tray eased, and her appetite had revived.

Now, for almost a week, Natasha had found that she could speak a little bit to Laura now, and not feel like something in her chest was constricting like a vise. Laura never asked her about anything important or specific, and so it freed Natasha up to give tips about cooking (a skill she'd been forced to learn and perfect since age twelve), comment about flowers and plumbing, and listen about child-rearing, and being a wife. Some other subjects held just enough familiarity that Natasha could keep up—others threw her out of her depth, but she just fell silent and paid attention, and Laura didn't seem to mind her quiet. In fact, her favorite subject, aside from Jason, was Clint Barton—of course. Through Laura, Natasha learned that they had met in London when her umbrella had blown away and he'd just happened to step up to lend her his. That he loved the woods, he loved camping, he was a night-owl and he enjoyed reading Russian classics but also Mark Twain. He was blunt to fault, and saw moral matters in black and white. And he couldn't wait to have more kids. Natasha had to fight hard to reconcile the image of that man with the one who had so relentlessly chased her across those rooftops.

Until she remembered he was the same man who had lowered his bow.

That Sunday had also been the first day that Laura had helped her down the stairs. At the foot of it, Jason had very helpfully handed her two crutches, and pushed her out the front door. Instantly, she'd scanned the perimeter of the property, her eyesight and hearing sharpening, heightened to detect any kind of movement. She stopped on the top step, holding her breath, calculating the risks of stepping out into the open, trying to recall if she'd heard any planes fly over recently, measuring how far away a shot would have to be taken from those woods in order to hit her and nothing else—

Then, Jason had grabbed her hand, pulled, and nearly knocked her off balance. Laura had caught her, laughing, and had warned Jason that he needed to be more careful. Then, Laura had helped Natasha down the rest of the stairs…

And from then on, all Natasha had been able to concentrate on was keeping up.

The little boy had excitedly given her an extensive tour of the chicken coops, the rose garden, the herb garden, the vegetable garden, the barn, the junk-heap, the pond, and the well. He'd babbled endlessly, needing no encouragement from her except acknowledgement that she was listening. His vivid eyes found hers all the time, and he darted ahead of her only to race back, gesturing feverishly and narrating all the while. After forcing herself to relax and quit searching the horizon, Natasha had relished the feeling of stretching her muscles, breathing fresh air, and challenging herself with these crutches. Just trekking along after this kid had proved a massive workout, and it had worn her out and made her sweat.

Laura had insisted on helping her bathe again that evening after supper—but Natasha had spent supper with a giggling Jason and good-natured Laura at the dinner table, eating pork-chops, green beans and potatoes—and so, all throughout the bath, a sleepy glow had surrounded her, fogging up her brain. She had tried to shake it off…

But she might not have tried as hard as she could have.

Every morning since, Laura had helped her dress and gotten her down the stairs, and Natasha had grabbed her crutches and made the rounds with Jason, checking all the animals and plants and watching him do his little chores. Then, in the afternoon, she had sat on the porch with tea or lemonade that Laura brought, being entertained by Jason as he played in the lawn with six new kittens. Then, they would all go inside, Natasha would cut up and wash the greens while Laura prepared the meat, and then the three of them would sit down to dinner. Soon, Natasha became strong enough she didn't need nearly as much help in the wash-room—and that, especially, made her stand up straighter.

Now, a slow smile lived on her face as her gaze lingered on that giggling little boy lying in the yard, three fluffy kittens on his chest, and three more wading through the grass around his head.

It was so easy to forget that perfect scenes like this were deceptive. That there really was no such place as a safe house. That, even if Barton's intentions tilted in her favor, there were far greater powers in this world than he. He was only a _soldat_. A mere Merry Man. Not Robin Hood himself.

And the reasons _why_ he had decided not to kill her in that alley lived under her skin like an unnamed poison. They would _keep_ living there until he came back and she could demand some answers.

The screen door squeaked open, and Laura came out with a glass of lemonade of her own. She stepped to the edge of the porch and called out to Jason.

"Hey, buddy! You ready to tell Natalie about her surprise?"

Natasha's thoughts jolted back to the present and she frowned at the other woman.

"Surprise—what surprise?"

Jason hopped up and ran up the stairs, grinning.

"Yeah, yeah," he panted. "I want to tell her."

"What is it?" Natasha wanted to know. She gave him a sideways look. "Are you keeping secrets from me?"

He giggled, covered his mouth with both hands, and nodded.

"Okay, tell her, then!" Laura urged—and Natasha could feel her watching her.

"You get to bake a pie!" Jason burst out. Natasha's eyebrows went up.

"I do?"

"Yep! Lemon meringue," he declared, grabbing his hands together behind his back. "And then there's another surprise."

"And you're not going to tell me?" Natasha pressed, eyes narrowed.

"Nope!" Jason shook his head hard—then laughed out loud. "Okay, yeah. _I_ get to crack the eggs for you! Come on!"

 _To be continued…_


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Natasha stared out the window at the moonlit meadow, studying the way the silvery light decorated the hedges and tips of the trees, her arms folded over her chest. She held her bad foot up just slightly, putting very little weight on the toe, standing almost completely motionless.

Silence filled the house. Not even the wind made the old walls creak. Still, she listened—a forced and well-practiced habit. She ran training scenarios back and forth through her mind—methodically, carefully, measuring her breaths, leveling her thoughts.

Barton was overdue. He had been gone over two weeks now. Though Laura didn't mention being worried, Natasha could see it in her face and hear it in her voice about as plainly as if she'd had it stamped on her forehead. There were countless reasons, of course, why Barton wasn't showing up when he should. Natasha could come up with fifty easy ones right off the top of her head.

But the one she kept coming back to—the one she would _never_ mention to Laura…

Was that SHIELD had killed him for failing his mission.

Which is why she wasn't sleeping tonight. Why she stood here, dressed in the combat clothes she'd arrived in, watching the edges of those woods.

Because they'd be coming here next.

For her. For Laura. And for Jason.

VVVVV

Natasha eased down onto her bed, wincing. Her internal clock told her it was three in the morning, and her hip had finally started hurting with a vengeance, along with the throbbing all through her injury. Even though it made her want to curse, she had to take the weight off or she'd be useless if any trouble cropped up. She'd have to settle for listening without seeing for a while.

She sank back into her pillows, taking a deep breath and re-focusing, folding her hands in her lap…

Movement.

She stopped breathing, staring at her open doorway, and the shadow that had shifted there.

Slowly, purposefully, she steeled herself, moving her good leg under her, ready to spring off and forward…

"Natalie?"

The low whimper shook her core. She blinked three times, and sat up straight, leaning forward.

"Jason?" she whispered. "What's wrong?"

"I had a nightmare," he went on weakly, his voice trembling. "And I went downstairs to see Mom…but she's sitting in the chair…and she's crying!" He choked and went on, his pitch rising. "And now I don't wanna go back in my room."

"Why not?" Natasha pressed.

"There's a monster!" he keened, sobbing now. "He's chasing me and he's gonna eat me! He's gonna _eat_ me!"

"Hey, hey. Come here and I'll tell you something," Natasha ordered.

Instantly, Jason bolted into the room. She caught sight of his little form in the moonlight before he launched himself onto the bed (thankfully on her good side) and threw his arms around her neck.

Before Natasha knew what was happening, she'd caught him, wrapped her arms all the way around him and pressed him to her heart. Jason took big fistfuls of her curls, his whole little body shaking. His tears trickled down Natasha's neck.

"Oh, oh… _Solnyshko_ …listen," she said earnestly, holding him as tight as she could and rocking him back and forth. "It's okay. It'll be okay."

He didn't say anything—didn't even shake his head. Just shivered even harder.

"No, no, now…Listen," Natasha pulled him loose, and made him sit down on her lap.

"What?" Jason muttered, swiping at his face and sniffing hard. She kept hold of him around the middle, and dipped her head so she could see his eyes.

"I think it's time to let you in on a secret."

"What is it?" Jason wondered, clearing his eyes enough to peer up at her.

"I'm gonna tell you what I do, for a job," she said. His eyes went wide.

"Your super-secret job?"

"Yeah," she nodded solemnly. "Promise you won't tell anyone?"

"Promise," he whispered, staring at her. She glanced carefully around the room, then leaned her head closer to his, until they were almost touching, and held his gaze.

"I kill the monsters in nightmares."

"You _do?"_ he breathed. She nodded.

"Yeah. I'm the expert. The best monster-killer there is. I know just how to chase 'em, and just how to kill 'em, so they don't scare anyone anymore."

"Even the big ones?" he asked. Natasha smiled.

" _Especially_ the big ones."

"Have you been doing that your whole life?"

"Pretty much," she nodded. "I had a friend when I was little…named Katya…who had a monster that would chase her every night. But as soon as she told me about it, I went in there and took care of it for her." She thumped Jason on the back. "It never bothered her again."

"Really?"

"Really."

"How…do you get into the dream?" Jason frowned and cocked his head.

"You just have to call my name," Natasha answered. "Call my name, and I'll be there just like that." She snapped her fingers. "I'll kill it. And then make it explode just like a firework, and it'll fall all down around you like sparkly snow. And it can't ever come back."

Jason thought about that for a long time, Finally, he fingered her collar.

"Promise?"

"Absolutely," she answered. "You just try it. If that monster comes after you again, you just yell for me. And you know what?"

"What?"

"I'm pretty famous. If you yell for me, ten to one that monster will get scared and run away, rather than deal with me."

Jason grinned.

"Really?"

"You bet." Natasha thumped his back again. "Now why don't you head on back to bed. You don't have anything to be scared of."

"Okay," he nodded. "Night."

Then, he leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.

Natasha's heart banged against her ribs.

Jason slipped out of her arms, clambered off the bed, and trotted out of the room. Natasha stared after him, fingertips against her face, sudden tears stinging her eyes.

VVVVV

The next three days passed differently than he others had. Laura kept mostly to herself, after taking care of what Natasha needed, and she didn't talk much. Jason, in turn, didn't seem too keen on doing his chores, and Laura didn't force him. So instead, he wandered up and down a few trails that wound around the house, Natasha close by his side, ever-watchful, her mind quiet, all her senses attuned.

Each day, as afternoon gave way to evening, tension built within Natasha's chest. She watched as Laura, who was used to this lifestyle, forced herself to suppress heavier and heavier amounts of deep concern. Which meant that Barton's situation had to be critical. But what could they do? What could any of them do? None of them had the first clue as to where he was.

On the third night, Natasha, Jason and Laura ate supper in semi-silence, and as darkness fell, and they bid Natasha goodnight, she entered her room but she did not get ready for bed. She stayed in her "dress blacks" as she called them, her boot strapped tight and her crutches within arm's reach. And she stared out that window, watching the silvery moon.

Listening.

VVVVVV

She felt a shift in the air. Minute, but definite. Behind her.

The rest of the house hung deathly still.

So she stopped breathing, too.

She lowered her arms, straightened her spine, and set her jaw. Then, very slowly, she bent her good leg…

"Hold it, hold it. Take it easy. No need to go all Russian ninja. It's just me."

Natasha spun around, eyes going wide at the sound of the low, _definitely_ masculine voice.

He stood in the door there, brush-swept with moonlight, smiling crookedly, those hawk-like eyes finding hers. She stared at him—

And a pang of sharply-painful relief surged through her chest.

A flicker of a thought made some comment about irony, but she ignored it, grabbed a crutch and hopped toward him.

"Where were you?" she demanded, keeping her low voice measured and severe. "Laura and Jason have been worried sick—Jason's been having nightmares about monsters trying to eat him and Laura's been crying herself to sleep! There wasn't a single, possible way you could have sent them word to let them know you were alive? With the length of time you've been gone, for all we knew, you'd been shot through the head and thrown into the ocean someplace—or whatever Nick Fury does to people who rub him the wrong way."

Barton didn't say anything. But that strange smile remained—and something in his eyes twinkled like stars. He didn't appear to be hurt, and he wore a more casual set of utility clothes. He wasn't dirty, either. In fact, he looked completely fine. All that, in combination with that knowing, gentle look in his gaze, made her want to crack him across the head.

"Natasha Romanoff," he murmured. "Just listen to _you_."

"Don't insult me," she shot back. "You're the one who dumped me here and basically threatened me with death if I set one foot outside."

"Apparently you've done more than that," Barton remarked, folding his arms. "Laura says you've been all over the grounds helping Jason do his chores and inspecting all the gardens. And you've been baking pies, and helping her cook roasts and chickens…" He gave her a pointed look. "That is, after you started speaking to her."

Natasha bit the inside of her lip and didn't answer.

"She said you acted like you were in shock for several days," he told her, brow furrowing. "Wouldn't say anything about anything, even though you were clearly in a great deal of pain."

"What was there to say?" Natasha shot back—but her voice didn't come out as strong as she would have liked. "I was stuck here, basically incapacitated. If I wanted to live, I had to use her to my advantage."

"You mean, you had to let someone help you for once in your life," he corrected. A shudder ran through her whole frame. She hated the way he looked at her. The way he looked _through_ her.

"There's nothing wrong with that, Romanoff," he murmured. She glared at him.

"Dependency is weakness," she bit out.

"Okay. So what about love?" he countered.

"It's for children," she shot back.

"Well, good," Barton smiled again. "Because Jason loves you."

Natasha blinked. Barton held her gaze. She swallowed—and pain traveled all down her chest and into her gut.

"Laura says he loves you like crazy. Can't stop talking about you, and what you're going to do the next day, and all the surprises he wants to plan for you, and all the stuff he wants to give you. Heck, he'd give you every single toy he owned right now. You're like…like a warrior princess and a fairy godmother and big sister all rolled up into one."

"That's stupid," she whispered, hardly able to breathe.

"Maybe," Barton shrugged. "But it's true."

She swallowed again. It hurt worse.

"So what's your point, Barton?" she deflected, looking away.

"The point is…" he said slowly. "I'm glad."

She turned back to him, frowning. He nodded.

"I'm glad," he said again. "Because Nick Fury has decided to make you a member of SHIELD."

Natasha stared at him, and her lips parted. Then, the strength in her left leg gave out, and she had to sink down sideways onto the bed.

"Sorry," she muttered, still watching every move on his face. "You'll have to repeat that."

"On a trial run," he said. "But he's very interested in someone with your particular skill set. We need somebody like you. Provided you're ready to give up murdering people for hire and be one of the good guys."

"The good guys?" Natasha repeated dully, stunned.

"Sure," Barton said. "I'm a good guy. Haven't you heard? I fight the Sheriff of Notty-ham in Sherlock forest."

Natasha snorted, her eyes stinging again, and she had to glance away or she'd show him too much. But he didn't say any more—and all of a sudden her throat got thick. She lifted her head, and risked meeting his gaze one more time.

His sardonic smile was gone. He looked back at her plainly. Waiting.

The pressure in her chest built to cracking. She closed her fists around the bedclothes.

"Why…" she rasped. "Why didn't you kill me?"

He didn't say anything for a moment. Then, he stepped closer…

And sat down on the bed next to her. The springs squeaked.

She stiffened, but he folded his arms, and ducked his head. His eyes narrowed…

And he took a low breath.

"Once upon a time, I did freelance work. Like what you've been doing. Money was good, jobs were relatively simple. Nothing got in the way of finishing anything. I got to travel, got to do what I wanted, as long as I got jobs done by the deadline." He pulled in another breath, and his arms tightened a little. "Then I was assigned a mark that proved pretty difficult. He was ex-Navy-Seal, and really pretty savvy. I chased him for a year. Basically made his life miserable. Long story short…I wound up blowing up his house."

Barton paused, and he brought his hands in front of him, and began massaging his fingers.

"But he lived," he went on. "And he got away. And then…he came after me. With a vengeance. Whoosh." Barton shook his head. "Apparently, we'd just been playing hop-scotch before. And…he was better than me. Way better. And finally, in some back alley in Rome…he had me. Knocked me flat on my butt and…Yeah. Gun _literally_ on my face. I had nowhere to go, I had no weapons, nothing. I was a dead man."

Natasha held her breath. Barton's eyebrows went up, his gaze distant.

"He didn't kill me."

Natasha unlocked her jaw, and made her mouth move.

"Why?"

Barton grinned crookedly.

"He said he wasn't going to kill anybody on Christmas Day."

Natasha opened her mouth and took a breath…

But his words sank down through her, and she couldn't speak. Barton shrugged again.

"I quit chasing him," he said. "And ever since then, I've promised myself that sometime,

someday, I'd pay it forward. Give somebody mercy even if he or she didn't deserve it at all. _I_ didn't deserve it—not from him. But I got it. That's the nature of grace, I guess."

Just breathing in and out sent needles of pain through Natasha's chest. Her jaw clenched, and no words came to mind.

"So," Barton lightly slapped his knees and stood up. "I basically got a new lease on life. Started walking the straight and narrow, got married, fighting bad guys, having kids. I expect the same sorta thing from you."

Natasha rolled her eyes, managed to cant her head, smile and give him a look.

"I think it's still illegal in this state to have more than one wife, but I'm flattered by your proposal."

He chuckled, starting toward the door.

"Yeah, sure, think whatever you want, if it makes you feel good."

"I always do."

"All right, well—I'm home now. You can stop worrying about me."

"I was _not_ worrying about you."

"You can't lie to me, Natasha," Barton gave her a final glance before he slipped through the door. "I've seen you."

He vanished like a shadow, making no sound at all…

Leaving Natasha with hot and cold chills racing over her skin, her whole heart in a tangle. But as she sat there, minute after minute, reality seeping down through her bones…

Her muscles gradually relaxed, and drowsiness overcame her.

Finally. The lightning arrow was home. The hawk had come to nest. Everything was safe and sound. _He_ would protect them. She could finally let herself sleep.

She should have known better.

 _To be continued…_


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

 _BOOM._

Natasha threw her covers off and leaped to a standing position before she was fully conscious. She lunged at the window and grabbed the frame, forcing her eyes to adjust—

And trying desperately not to be dazzled by the blinding explosion that had just slammed through the woods.

"That was a bomb," she hissed.

"Stay here."

She whirled around. Clint stood in the doorway wearing only pajama pants and boots, but he held his quiver and bow, his eyes bright and alert.

"Where are you going?" she pressed.

"To see what that was. Not too close, though," he said, slinging his quiver across him. "Someone might have tailed me—tripped one of the booby traps I have around the perimeter. Could have just been a deer or something, but I'm not willing to take chances, so I need you here. Laura and Jason have locked themselves in their rooms—that's protocol if something goes wrong."

"Understood," Natasha nodded.

"You keep an eye on them," he ordered. "I'll be right back."

With that, he dashed down the stairs. Natasha hopped after him and grabbed the doorframe, grudgingly admitting that the guy moved about as silent as death. That's why she hadn't heard him come home.

For an irritatingly-long time, she stayed right where she was, keenly aware that Jason's room was only just down the hall to her left. Laura's bedroom was on the main floor, through the living room…

 _Clink_.

She froze.

The brush of cloth against the vase in the hall table.

A footstep. Another one.

 _Way_ too silent to be Barton's if he was returning because a deer tripped a wire.

Natasha set her teeth.

With silence just as deadly as Barton's, she reached into the closet, and grasped Jason's junior-sized bow. Luckily, he had been playing with it a few days ago and forgotten to loose the string. She took it in her left hand, and put her fingertips on the one arrow in the quiver. He had left the other ones down in the side yard.

She grasped it, and slowly drew it loose.

It sounded like the ring of crystal.

Taking them both firmly in hand, she limped out the door and into the hallway.

She couldn't put any weight on her foot—even though the boot bound it, she knew it would buckle right away. So, she gingerly lowered herself all the way down to the ground, and crawled forward, Army-style, sliding soundlessly along the wood floor to the very edge of the staircase.

And here came the fun part.

She got her good leg under her, slowly raised up, and secured her hold on her weapons. She leaned her rear end against the left hand bannister, took a single breath…

Hopped up, and sat on it.

Instantly, she leaned her upper body sideways, toward upstairs—

She slid, air rushing past her face, flying into the first floor—

She hit the end of the rail, threw her weight—

Spun mid-air, and landed with a ballerina's grace on her left foot. Bent her leg, absorbed the impact…straightened up…

And made no noise at all.

The next second, she had raised the bow, notched the arrow, and sighted down its shaft…

A woman stood in the middle of the living room, all garbed in black. A knife gleamed in her left hand. She walked with purpose, and the tread of a cat.

And in that moment, as this woman edged her way toward Laura's bedroom, Natasha Romanoff's vision turned red.

She drew back the bow. It did not creak.

What a lovely weapon. As secret and stealthy as she.

Took half a breath.

Held it.

Let go.

The arrow flashed through moonlight and into darkness.

 _Pang_.

The woman's arms flung out. She thudded to her knees. The arrow in her back trembled.

Natasha, keeping hold of her bow, smoothly grabbed a kitchen stool and flung it out in of her like a long, swinging cane—she leaped across the distance between them and reached out to grab the woman's shoulder—

The woman spun, lashed out and snatched Natasha's wrist.

And for just one instant, Natasha stared into the ice-gray eyes of her _Uchitelnica._ The Headmistress of the _Krasnaya Komnata_.

Natasha's master and owner. Ever since she was born.

 _"Sloppy, Romanoff."_

Her disdain, her condescension—her relentless, ruthless, dogged persistence. Her heartless methods of training, the pre-dawn exercises in the snow and frost, the initiations, the hooded executions, the broken bones, the burns, the brands, the scars…the graduation ceremony…

It all flashed in front of Natasha, brighter than daylight…

And then it bled through with vivid, living images of gold and lavender, soap suds and Transformers and nightmares and pies and sunrises and sparrows and the laughing eyes of a particularly dear six-year old—

Steel sang.

It slashed the air right in front of Natasha's face. She leaped back. Madam bared her teeth, her blonde hair mussed, as she forced herself to her feet and lunged at her.

Natasha picked up the stool in one hand, balanced and swung. Madam knocked it out of the way, but yelped—then stabbed at Natasha.

Natasha dodged. Her hip throbbed in warning.

"My sources told me you had betrayed me," Madam rasped, adjusting her grip on her knife. "I didn't want to believe it. But this… _this_ is proof enough."

"Why are you here?" Natasha bit back.

"I came to rescue you and kill your captors," Madam seethed, eyes blazing. "To save the one I would have called my daughter. But you…you have become weak. Weak—if you would protect this worthless woman and her children."

Natasha's mind staggered. Madam shook her head.

"On second thought," she muttered. "I will kill you first. And _then_ them."

She threw her knife.

Natasha whirled—and fell.

She crashed to the floor, the ghost of the knife whizzing past her hair.

She grimaced, pain shooting all down her side.

"Ha," Madam spat, stalwartly ignoring the arrow sticking out from between her shoulder blades. "Look at you. Look at that leg! Ech, that leg. What good is it now? I didn't know it was this bad, but Natalia, really." She prodded Natasha's hurt leg with her toe. "You should have just killed yourself and been done with it. Then these stupid people would have been safe from you." Madam shook her head. " _Ty byla moyei luchshey uchinitcey."_

Natasha went still. Stared up at that woman's face. That face which seemed, all at once, like someone she'd never seen in her life. She took a breath. And answered.

" _Bolshe net."_

Natasha swung her bow.

Struck the back of Madam's knees.

She toppled backward—

Natasha kicked off with her good leg and leaped on top of Madam, throwing all of her weight straight down on her—

They slammed into the floor.

 _Crunch._

The arrow went all the way through.

Natasha, her whole body shaking, the shaft of the arrow touching her shoulder as she lay on top of Madam, her face inches from hers, bared her teeth.

"You…" she choked, tightening her iron grip. "Will not… _touch_ them."

Madam stared at the ceiling, her mouth gapped open. Seeing nothing.

It took several seconds for Natasha to realize that she wasn't breathing.

Her stomach turning over, Natasha clambered up, grabbing that stool and setting it upright, and sitting down on it, sucking in one desperate breath, then another. Then another.

Staring down at her dead headmistress. The woman who had nursed her, raised her, trained her and taught her everything she knew.

And feeling nothing at all.

"Natasha!"

Natasha looked over her shoulder—to see Barton charge in, fully intact. The next second, Laura burst out of her bedroom, cast a quick look over the dead body on the floor, grabbed a pillow and threw it over Madam's face, and then found Barton.

"What happened?"

"Diversion," he panted. "That explosion out there in the woods—yeah, I was supposed to go after that, apparently. But…" He swiped sweat off his face, and gazed starkly at Natasha. "Looks like my second line of defense was pretty good."

"Yeah, no worries," Natasha waved it off, feeling faint. "I've got it covered. No problem."

Barton didn't tear his eyes from her. And the longer she looked back at him, the more she knew he saw.

But this time, she could see into him, too.

And what she saw made her heart hurt.

"Natalie?"

She twitched, and glimpsed Jason halfway down the stairs, clutching a teddy bear.

"Don't come down any further, honey," Laura urged, stepping in front of Madam. "There's some broken glass down here. I don't want you cutting your feet."

"What's going on?"

"Some work stuff," Natasha told him, mustering a smile. "Like I said. Just killing the monsters in your dreams."

"Oh," he said, then halfway smiled. "Okay."

Natasha gave him a better smile, then glanced over at Barton.

He was still looking at her, in a way she decided she could get used to. A smile of his own flickered across his face—knowing, grateful, and meant only for her. She returned it, and slowly ducked her head, a light guttering to life in her chest.

Unbelievably strange.

But…not unwelcome.

Such was the nature of grace.

 _The end_


End file.
